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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25259593">Nimuë and Arthur</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArouraVellichor/pseuds/ArouraVellichor'>ArouraVellichor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Colonialism, Environmental Themes, Excalibur, Feminist Themes, Gothic, Lady of the Lake - Freeform, Lady of the Lake reflects on her decision to give King Arthur his sword, Short Story, Written for a Class, but like the sword is a poorly done metaphor, its sorta graphic but flowery graphic, king arthur - Freeform, uuuuuhhhh basically my Lit teacher made the class write a gothic short story</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:34:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>662</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25259593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArouraVellichor/pseuds/ArouraVellichor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When she first saw him, he was young and fresh, afraid of the power gifted to him. The last time she saw him, he yearned for it with all his heart. Now she sees the damage that the young King (un)knowingly caused.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nimuë and Arthur</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first time posting my work anywhere so any feedback would be greatly appreciated!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When she first saw him, he was just a boy, young and moulded as easily as the clay that lies beneath her. He came stumbling to her and knelt at her door, staining the water red with the blood of another. It dyed his tunic a rusty scarlet, and made a stark streak of ruby on the polished steel of his armour, so heavy on his young body. His face was gaunt with the knowledge of the capabilities of mankind and he came bearing a sword, great and terrible, worthy only of a great leader.</p><p><br/>The sword of the first king.</p><p><br/>He forsook it, and it sunk to the murky depths of her home where it would lie, undisturbed, as he recognised its power and knew that none should have such authority.</p><p><br/>It lay there, leaning on a rock not unlike the one that it was pulled from not long ago, collecting grime, mostly hidden from the soft light by the pondweed and lily pads. If you looked carefully on a bright day you might have glimpsed it, lying at the bottom of the lake, lazily refracting the dappled lights that filtered through the treetops of the vast and esoteric forest surrounding her home. Over time, it sunk lower, a simple feature in the lives of the dark scaled creatures that shared her dwelling.</p><p><br/>When he returned, begging for a means to help him and his people, she rose from the serene waters, clad in the palest of hues, an inky curtain of hair streaming below a crown of corroded silver, her face an ashen grey, identical to the marble of the statues of the old gods of Rome and Athens. The drowned corpse of a beautiful maiden.</p><p><br/>She disregarded his former unspoken warning, struck by naïve trust in mankind, failing to notice the lust for power in his eyes and the harsh lines of his face and jaw, carved from brutality, and, instead reforged the sword with her own hands, mighty and supreme. It’s cold fire, bright and harsh like sunlight on fresh snow, blinded its enemies when drawn, and even in her muted hearth, it burned her eyes. Her lake was tinged wine red for days after she put its side to the whetstone and she dreaded thinking what innocent creatures were slain with it. She knew deep in her heart that this was not a sword that would be used sparsely and with great consideration, but one that would lead to blood on cobblestones and broken bodies in fields and in mountains. She offered it anyway, not like worshipper to a king, but like water offers life to a sapling.</p><p><br/>Later she learned what came from that boy and his sword, the decimated lands and barren towns. She never could have foreseen the millions that died from that sword, the children, the cultures, the countries. The sword she had forged had carved borders into the earth so deep that centuries, millennia, later the sting of the cut was still felt. She heard from the land, who cries out in pain, loudly once, softly now, for they will not listen to its plea. It cries in the crashing of tsunami waves, the harsh bake of the sun on parched crops, the feverish cerulean water, and the all-consuming fire of the forests that were never meant to burn.</p><p><br/>She never thought that a simple sword could disturb the land in such a way. But it never was a simple sword, she thought late one night, when the stillness and warmth of a summer staying past its welcome had made its way to the darkened expanse of her home. No, it wasn’t the sword that did the damage, but the power that was supplied with it. How wrong she was to trust him, to trust any man. She doesn’t anymore, not after she’s seen their hunger and cruelty. She would not be so naïve to give that power to any man now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yeah, I don't know how to write a sentence that is less than three lines long.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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